HOW TO FUCK A DEAD BIKER (18+) - AN MC ROMANCE

ASTORIA’S POV

If I have to hear “Monster Mash” one more time, I’m going to commit a felony.

“Come on, Tori. You look like someone’s holding you hostage.” Whitney loops her arm through mine, nearly spilling her drink—something neon green that definitely violates the Geneva Conventions.

She’s dressed as a sexy witch, because of course she is. Black corset, fishnets, a hat that keeps hitting people in the face. She looks hot and she knows it.

Me? I’m Nancy Drew. And by Nancy Drew, I mean I threw on a trench coat over jeans and a tank top twenty minutes before we left.

Whitney tried to get me into a “sexy nurse” costume. I told her I’d rather get hit by a bus.

“I’m not being held hostage,” I lie, scanning the Sigma Kappa house like it’s a crime scene. Which, given the smell of cheap vodka and weed, it might actually be by morning. “I’m just observing.”

“You’re brooding.”

“I’m processing.”

“You’re being boring.”

She’s not wrong.

Three months post-breakup with Warren the Human Ambien, and I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be doing something with my life.

Something more than shotgunning White Claws in a house that definitely has black mold.

The party is exactly what you’d expect from a Halloween rager thrown by people whose parents pay their rent.

Strobing lights that could trigger a seizure, music so loud I can feel it in my teeth, and approximately seventy drunk undergrads in various states of undress pretending this is the best night of their lives.

There’s a guy in a banana costume doing a keg stand. A girl dressed as a “sexy crayon” is crying in the corner. Someone just broke a lamp.

It’s hell. I hate it here.

“You need to get laid,” Whitney announces, way too loud. A guy dressed as a vampire turns to look at us with interest. She waves him off. “Not you, Brad.”

“How do you know his name is Brad?”

“Look at him. He’s definitely a Brad.”

She’s probably right.

“I don’t need to get laid,” I mutter, taking a sip of the lukewarm beer someone handed me an hour ago. It tastes like bad decisions. “I need to go home and finish my Criminology essay.”

“It’s not due until Monday.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Astoria Holt, I swear to God, if you finish that sentence with anything involving the words ‘get ahead’ or ‘planning,’ I’m disowning you.” Whitney stops in the middle of the living room, turning to face me with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for interventions.

Her witch hat smacks a guy dressed as a tampon. He doesn’t notice.

“You’re twenty-one. You’re hot. You’re single. And you’re at a Halloween party surrounded by options. The least you can do is try to have fun.”

“I’m having fun.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The face you do when you’re mentally calculating how many credits you need to graduate early so you can escape human interaction forever.”

Okay, she’s really not wrong.

I sigh, letting her drag me further into the chaos.

We end up near the kitchen, which is somehow worse—stickier floors, a punch bowl that’s definitely spiked with something illegal, and a concerning number of people making out against the fridge.

Whitney grabs two shots off the counter. Hands me one. “Drink.”

“I don’t—”

“Drink, or I’m telling everyone you still sleep with your childhood stuffed rabbit.”

“Mr. Fluffington is vintage.”

“Drink.”

I drink. Three shots. It burns going down and tastes like gasoline mixed with candy. I cough. Whitney grins, triumphant.

“There. Now you’re fun.”

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s the spirit!”

She’s about to drag me toward the dance floor—a horrifying prospect—when she stops dead.

Her eyes go wide, and she gets that look. The look that means she’s about to ruin my life in a spectacular fashion.

“Oh my God.”

“No.”

“Oh my God.”

“Whitney, I know that tone. That’s your ‘bad idea’ tone.”

“I dare you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—to kiss the hottest guy at this party.”

I blink at her. “Are you twelve?”

“I’m fun. There’s a difference.” She’s already scanning the room like a predator hunting prey. “Come on. When’s the last time you did something impulsive?”

“I came to this party.”

“That doesn’t count. I dragged you.” She spins me around, hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at the crowd. “Pick someone. Anyone. Just prove to me you’re not completely dead inside.”

“I’m not—”

“You color-code your socks, Astoria.”

“Organization is not a character flaw!”

But I’m already looking. Not because I want to. Because Whitney’s right—I am boring.

I’ve spent the last three months being the Responsible Friend™, the one who holds hair back and makes sure everyone gets home safe and answers her mom’s texts within five minutes.

I’ve been so busy trying to be good that I forgot what it’s like to be anything else.

And that’s when I see him.

He’s leaning against the wall near the back door, half-hidden in shadows, and I don’t know how I missed him before. Maybe because he doesn’t fit.

Everyone here is trying too hard—costumes, makeup, desperation. But this guy? He’s just... there.

Leather jacket worn soft, dark jeans, boots that look like they’ve seen some shit. Arms crossed over his chest, watching the chaos like it’s a show put on for his amusement.

He’s not dressed up. Doesn’t need to be.

And he’s hot. Like, offensively hot. The kind of hot that makes you forget how to form sentences.

Sharp jaw, messy dark hair that looks like he ran his hands through it one too many times, and a smirk that should be illegal.

He looks older. Mid-twenties, maybe. Too old to be slumming it at an undergrad party. But here he is, looking like he walked straight out of a fever dream I didn’t know I was having.

“Him,” I hear myself say.

Whitney follows my gaze. Her jaw drops.

“Holy shit. Okay, yeah. Him.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Too late. You picked. Now go.” She shoves me forward, and I nearly trip over a guy in a dinosaur costume.

“Whitney, I’m not actually—”

“Tick tock, Nancy Drew. You’ve got a mystery to solve, and that mystery is why that man is standing alone looking like a whole-ass meal.”

I’m going to kill her. I’m going to actually kill her.

But my feet are moving. Liquid courage, or stupidity, or maybe just the fact that I’m so tired of being boring.

I weave through the crowd, and the closer I get, the more details I notice. Tattoos peeking out from under his jacket sleeve. The way he’s holding a beer but hasn’t taken a sip.

The fact that his eyes—gray-green and stupidly intense—have locked on me.

He noticed me. And he hasn’t looked away.

My heart is pounding. This is insane. I don’t do this. I don’t walk up to strange men at parties and—

He tilts his head, that smirk deepening. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s daring me to keep walking.

Fuck it.

I stop in front of him, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He’s tall. Of course he is.

“You gonna keep staring,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds, “or are you waiting for an invitation?”

His smirk turns into a grin. Slow, devastating.

“Depends.” His voice is low, rough around the edges in a way that does things to me. “What are you inviting me to?”

Oh, he’s good.

I cross my arms, mirroring his posture.

“My friend dared me to kiss the hottest guy at this party.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you picked me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he’s closer. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell him—leather, something clean and sharp. “So you need a dare to kiss me? That’s disappointing.”

I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down even though my pulse is doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

“Maybe I just like a challenge.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. They linger.

“Good.” His voice is almost a purr. “So do I.”

The air between us is electric, crackling with something I don’t have a name for. Around us, the party rages on, music, laughter, chaos.

But it’s like we’re in a bubble. Just him and me and this unbearable tension that’s making it hard to breathe.

“You always this confident?” I ask, because I need to say something before I do something stupid. Like kiss him without permission.

“You always this mouthy?”

“It’s been known to get me in trouble.”

“I like trouble.”

“I bet you do.”

He’s definitely flirting. I’m definitely flirting back. And I have no idea what I’m doing, but I don’t want to stop.

“So,” he says, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek. “You gonna follow through on this dare, or are you all talk?”

Oh, he thinks he’s smooth.

He’s right.

I grab the front of his jacket—soft, worn leather under my fingers—and pull him down.

“Guess you’re about to find out.”

I kiss him.

And the world ends.

It’s supposed to be quick. Prove a point. Win the dare.

But the second my lips touch his, he makes this sound, low, hungry, and cups the back of my neck with one large hand.

His grip is firm, possessive, and he deepens the kiss like he’s been waiting for it.

I forget how to think.

He tastes like mint and something darker, dangerous. His mouth is hot, demanding, and when his tongue slides against mine, I actually whimper.

My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer, and he obliges. His free hand finds my waist, grips hard, and suddenly I’m pressed against the wall I didn’t realize we’d moved toward.

The party disappears. The music, the people, the noise—it’s all gone. There’s just him.

The way he’s kissing me like he’s starving. The way his thumb brushes the side of my neck, feeling my racing pulse. The way he’s holding me like I’m something precious and filthy at the same time.

When we finally break apart, I’m gasping. My lips are swollen, tingling.

He’s breathing hard too, forehead resting against mine, and I can feel the tension in his body. Like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and it sounds wrecked.

“Yeah,” I manage, because words are hard right now.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

“What’s your name?”

“Astoria.”

“Kai.” He says it like a confession. Then, quieter: “We should get out of here.”

It’s not a question. It’s an offer. A dare of his own.

I should say no. I don’t know this guy. He could be a serial killer. An asshole. A fuckboy. All of the above.

But when he looks at me like that, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters, I don’t care.

“Okay.”